


Growing Up

by Missy



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Cheating, M/M, Porn Battle, Semipublic Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-29
Updated: 2011-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-15 05:48:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes to Randy's daughter's birthday party because he's genuinely fond of the kid...but he's far fonder of her father...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Growing Up

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle, Prompt: WWE, John Cena/Randy Orton, fatherhood

Growing up sucks.

One minute you’re eighteen, driving fifty-five with a forty in your front pocket, the next you’re sitting at the kiddie table, eating Cinderella’s skirt and drinking dinosaur punch while your “best friend” tries to entertain a flock of two-year-olds for an hour with a cow puppet.

You’re there because you like kids, his kids specifically, and she calls you ‘Uncle Johnny’ and you think you might want to have one like her, someday, so practice doesn’t hurt. You’re also there because you still come whenever he asks you to – for a weekend, a night in a shithole motel, a second in a bathroom at a liquor store. Anything.

You’re as caught up, like Rapunzel in her golden hair.

When his wife comes back from the store with another half-gallon of ice cream, he says he needs to ‘check on something he left in the garage. And he gives you that look as he gets up from the picnic table.

You say you need to drain the lizard, and the kids all laugh (his wife glares at you – she’s never approved, you don’t expect her to.). You amble into the house, take a long look into the mirror, then sneak down the back stairs to the garage.

He’s there, between the station wagon and the spare refrigerator, half-hidden in the dark, slowly stroking his cock. “Come on,” he growls and you give him a grin.

“Is that any way to talk to the champ, baby?” You lunge for him, grab his shoulders, give him a biting kiss that leads to a flash of teeth and the bite of two rough hands on your ass.

He pulls away, his lips shining in the dim light. “Get me off,” it’s half an order, not quite a request.

“Beg me first.” You’re enjoying this, the back of your hand brushing the tip of his dick, making it jump away from the heat of you, the guilt of the afternoon.

He slams you into the wall, shoving your tee-shirt up, biting your nipples, humping against you. He knows how to get your dick hard, which is and will always be the quickest route to the mercy seat; you growl and try to align his face and your zipper.

“No,” he snaps, and yanks you to the ground by your belt loop. You’ll never know how he managed to kip up to his feet and drag you forward by your chain and grind his crotch into your face, but he does it. You glare at the denim for a moment in rebellion while his dick rubs up and down the center line of your face, slicking itself against your moist mouth. “Suck,” he orders.

You dither, just a bit. Little kisses up and down the heft of him, then licking the tip. He gets impatient. “Use your hands. Hurry up.” That just forces you to slow to a glacial pace. In the span of a minute you have the first couple of inches in your mouth. Then you suck gently, carefully on him. “Damn it,” he gruts through clenched teeth, which is the International Sign Of Please Deep Throat Me Before I Die John.

You do it, because you can’t stand to see someone suffer for too long, and because his dick is harder than the brick wall behind him. You do a few push ups around it – who knew you could combine sucking cock and cardio? – then collapse those throat muscles and draw down as firmly as you can. A wise man once told you to use the tongue, not the hand, and use you do.

He comes so abruptly that you almost gag on it, with only the smallest gasp as a warning sign. It clings to the back of your throat, and your eyes are watering but you still slam it down. Doing the do, as you would.

“STOP damn it. Shit,” he breathes. So you spit out his dick and get up, hands in pockets, and stand there with a cheezy grin on your face and a hard-on poking at of the fly of your chinos, crossing your arms expectantly.

He looks you up and down, stares at your fly. “Take it out.” When you do, his eyes widen and a wicked grin tilts his lips. He gets on his knees but his eyes are on yours the whole way down.

“Open wide, baby,” you tell him, and he rolls his eyes as he drops to his knees.

The beautiful thing about Randy is that you can fuck his face as hard as you want and he can take it - he’ll never let you quit. All he has to do is flick his tongue a certain way and you have him by the ears. Your hips move without thought, just instinct, pounding away at the open void of wetness. It’s glorious and you mask your grunts with long humming noises. When you come your knees buckle and one of them hits the fender of his precious station wagon. His eyes fly open, then close in pleasure; for a minute you hang in his arms, and it’s good enough.

He squirms out from between you and the car, zipping himself up. He sits on the hood, takes a deep breath, and looks you up and down. He likes what he sees, but so do you.

“Clean up before you go back out there.”

You shrug. Hey, you had fun, you’re not gonna push it, but sometimes you wish he’d let you kiss him. You close your eyes for just a second and breathe. Your shorts are still unbuttoned; your dick’s still leaking against your thigh; your skin is sweaty. All you can taste is the salty heat of him on the back of your tongue, mixed with the sweet of cake frosting. Fuck, you’re still smiling.

Yeah, growing up sucks, all right.

You laugh at the cliché but can’t help thinking it. Sometimes, it sucks in all the right ways.


End file.
